Tradition of Deceit Read Online Free PDF Page A

on the line, and he says ‘Hey, I can’t roust Almirez. See if you can find him.’ So … I find him.” Dobry paused.
    Roelke ground his teeth again. For the love of God, if Dobry dragged this story out any longer, Roelke would throttle him. “Where?”
    â€œIn a bar.”
    â€œTrouble on a bar check?”
    â€œNo. Roelke, Rick was having a Policeman’s Coke.”
    â€œWhat?” Roelke stared at Dobry. Policeman’s Coke was a euphemism for alcohol. “No way.”
    Dobry held up his hands. “I saw Rick through the window, tossing back a cold one at the Rusty Nail.”
    Roelke’s eyes narrowed. Even if Rick had been off-duty, the Rusty Nail was not the kind bar he would have chosen to relax in. “Was he with somebody?”
    â€œI don’t know. I grabbed my flashlight and shined it inside to get Rick’s attention.” Dobry pantomimed holding a phone to his ear, the signal for You got to call in, NOW. “I waited until he came out, and basically asked what the hell he was doing. He just thanked me, and said he’d go call in.” Dobry wiped a hand over his face. “That was the last time I saw him. He hit his next mark at 2:50, right on time. Nobody would have been the wiser except … you know. After Rick got shot, Cox figured he better come clean.”
    â€œI don’t see why,” Roelke snapped, although honestly, he probably would have done the same himself.
    â€œLook,” Dobry said grimly. “You know, and I know, that Rick must have had a real good reason for what he did. But the sergeant—and probably now the captain and chief too—they don’t necessarily see it that way.”
    Roelke wouldn’t have guessed that anything could be worse than what Jody had said: He’s dead, Roelke . But this …
    Dobry stared over the yard. “They kept it from the press for now, but …” He lit another cigarette and inhaled like a man in need. “If reporters discover that Rick had been tossing back a cold one earlier that night, they’ll make the entire shooting look like officer error.”
    Roelke’s hands clenched. A growl came from somewhere deep inside. “God damn it!” His foot connected with the stack of flowerpots—some plastic, some clay—in a soccer kick. They flew into the yard with an obscene clatter.

    â€œGeez.” Chloe planted her feet on the sidewalk and grabbed the chain-link security fence so she could study the enormous ruin inside—a hulk of limestone walls covered with cracked concrete, grimy and grafittied.
    â€œWelcome to the Washburn A Mill,” Ariel said. “The whole complex was made up of ten buildings, constructed between 1866 and 1908. The museum is being planned for the A Mill, which is the largest.” She pointed to a series of cylindrical grain elevators, maybe 100 or more feet tall. “The head house on top of the elevators is five stories itself.”
    Chloe shielded her eyes from the sun. Atop the head house an iconic sign spelled GOLD MEDAL FLOUR in huge yellow letters. “Is this where Gold Medal Flour got its start?”
    â€œIt is. And after a couple of mergers, Washburn became Washburn-Crosby Company in 1879, and then General Mills in 1928,” Ariel said mechanically. “Listen, Owen and Jay are supposed to meet us here. We should wait in the car. It’s not safe to wander around alone.”
    â€œIt looks like any one of these walls might crumble at any moment,” Chloe agreed. Ariel had parked in a lane on the bank of the Mississippi River, in the industrial heart of Minneapolis. The landscape was bleak: weeds, heaps of gravel, railroad tracks, abandoned buildings, crumbles of rubble that only hinted at the industry once powered by the mighty river.
    â€œIt’s not just that,” Ariel said. “This is a bad area. I know we’re not far from my place, but those few miles